The Darkness Beyond Fate
by Freak in the Woods
Summary: Harry Potter has been hated his whole life. The Chamber of Secrets, the parseltongue, the death of Cedric Diggory; he's sick of trying to prove to everyone he's not the next Dark Lord. When Harry is given the opportunity to start over, will he still choose the greater good? After all, if the world is only going to see him as evil, why act any different? Time Travel AU. HP/TR
1. Chapter 1: Colder than Stone

It was pitch black when Harry shot awake, scrambling for his wand. Ragged breaths were the only sound penetrating the thick darkness, his thundering heartbeat hammering in his throat. It was an unbearably stuffy night on Privet Drive, but still Harry Potter shivered violently.

He could still see it; the absolute blackness was a canvas for his nightmares to take shape. He was there, all over again. The cursed cemetery, with cold stone and even colder laugher. Had he even escaped? The hard floor beneath a thin mattress—was he lying inside a tombstone, trapped?

Harry ripped the damp sheets off his shivering form as panic seized him. He clutched his wand. Where was he? Was he dead? Was he in hell? He could still hear that chilling laugh, taunting him. His breath shook as he struggled to breathe the humid August air.

No, he never escaped. He was still there, watching, helpless as that worm stole his mother's last gift to him; her love. He stole it and made that thing and then he came back and then—

A flash.

A streak of green, so vivid, so bright, he could feel the static of the lightning as it shot past him, hitting a boy—a man—and Harry screamed and screamed and could do nothing as the light left his eyes.

Cedric Diggory.

_I'm sorry._ He whispered through choking tears, but he was already gone.

Harry wept silently, his body shaking in the darkness. It was an oppressively hot night, but he'd never felt so cold.

Harry lie awake, shivering, until dawn peaked through the curtains. His tears had long since dried. He felt raw. A weight had settled over him draining his energy. He was tired. Just so tired. All he wanted to do was lay in bed and forget the world existed, but he couldn't. He had to get up.

With willpower he didn't know he still had, Harry dragged himself off his thin mattress and crawled onto the wooden floor, fumbling for his glasses. His room was sparsely decorated; his Aunt and Uncle were reluctant to give their freak of a nephew even the bare minimum furniture. His bed lay near the center, a tangled mess of thin sheets and thinner pillows. The light of the sun illuminated his small dresser, its brown paint starting to flake off. He had a bookshelf filled with second-hand books and little broken trinkets he'd found over the years, and Hedwig's cage sat on top of a knee-high nightstand. His room was empty, a constant reminder of how little he was wanted in this house.

Harry picked himself off the floor and stumbled to his dresser, pulling out a the first articles of clothing his hands touched. They had all at one time been Dudley's, of course—Aunt Petunia refused to spend any money on such "luxuries" for her nephew. All of his clothes were three sizes too big and hung ridiculously off his too-thin frame. Grabbing it from where he clutched it the night before, he pocketed his wand. Vernon had been too terrified to confiscate it at the beginning of summer. He hated to be without his wand, even for short periods of time.

After dressing, he let Hedwig out of her cage to hunt. He was grateful that Vernon had finally allowed the owl to leave the house, if only because he had threatened to start breeding mice in his room. Aunt Petunia was disgusted and fought with Vernon until he had acquiesced to the lesser of two evils; letting the bird out on her own.

Harry watched the snow-white owl gracefully glide through the air and disappear over the neighbors' houses. At least Hedwig was free on Privet Drive.

Although, Harry was lucky today—his Uncle was having guests over. Vernon wanted to impress some big-time metal manufacturers and Aunt Petunia refused to let such important people encounter their freak of a nephew while she played host in their perfectly normal home. He was to be out of the house by sunrise and not come back until sunset—a deal that suited Harry just fine.

Harry slunk down the stairs, silent as a ghost after years of memorizing every creak. The house was unbearably quiet. The sun had only just risen, yet the already oppressive heat smothered any noise.

He crept into the kitchen. He snatched an apple, a bottle of water, some bread and cheese, and after a moment's hesitation—a peach. He knew Aunt Petunia was loathe to allow him "excess" food, but he knew she would rather he stayed away and if an extra bite of food was the price, she was willing to pay it.

Dudley's outrageously large pockets easily accommodated all of Harry's plunders. With a final glance around the kitchen, he grabbed one more water bottle. It really was going to be a scorching day.

He made for the door, pausing by the small cupboard under the stairs. His Hogwarts things lay just beyond a thick padlock. Locked away, like all freakish things were. Like he had been. With a sour taste in his mouth, Harry turned and walked out of Privet Drive.

That night, he would wish he had never left that cupboard under the stairs.

Harry wandered aimlessly for a few hours, absentmindedly nibbling at his apple. He had nothing to do, really. He had no friends in this muggle town. Dudley had made sure of that when they were younger. He and his gang picked on anybody brave enough to ask the scrawny, messy-haired kid if he'd wanted to play a round of tag. Harry always sat on the edge of the playground when they were little, looking at everyone playing together and having fun. Nothing had changed as he grew older. Until Hogwarts, that is.

He missed Hogwarts terribly in those hours; there, at least, he wasn't alone. After eleven years of painful solitude, he finally had friends. Friends...if only they would talk to him.

Harry sighed. He hadn't received a single letter that contained anything of significance. He begged and pleaded in his notes to Ron and Hermione for any information on Voldemort, _anything_, but...they never did. It was always about trivial things, like vacations and sibling fights. It was so frustrating! The greatest Dark Lord of this era had been revived, a mass murderer with countless deaths on his hands, and _still_, it was if the man never existed. Harry needed information. He was trapped in a bubble at Privet Drive. There was no news from the outside, the magical side of Britain. No Daily Prophet, no moving photographs, not even Rita Skeeter for Merlin's sake. The magical world continued on but for three months Harry was trapped in a world without magic.

His fists clenched. Out of all the wizards who should be updated on Voldemort's attacks, it should be him! The man tried to kill him nearly every year at Hogwarts! Harry fumed, punting a small rock that was unlucky enough to be in his path.

Eventually, he settled for a bit at the rundown playground. He sat on one of the few swings still usable; Dudley had managed to break most of them. The sun beat down on him while he finished his sandwich and peach. He had already gone through one of the water bottles. Sweat ran down his face, but strangely, Harry didn't quite feel it. Inside, he shivered. While the outside of him was being baked alive, there was a portion of him, deep down in his core, that remained unbearably cold. Colder than stone.

Harry started as harsh laughter echoed around him. Even in midday he could still feel the freezing grip of death around him, choking him, squeezing him, laughing as he—

He doubled over, gasping. The knots in his throat throbbed as he tried to choke down tears. He grabbed at his wand in his pocket. He felt sick.

Harry didn't move, desperately trying to center himself and regain composure. He couldn't cry anymore—crying wouldn't bring Cedric back. If he had been stronger, he could have shielded him from the curse that killed him. If he had been quicker, he could have gotten to the cup long before Cedric had. But he didn't. He hadn't. He was weak and pathetic and Cedric had paid the price. No, tears were weak, and weakness wouldn't solve anything. He didn't know how long he stayed like that.

Harry was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't notice Dudley until he spoke.

"What're you cryin' over?"

Harry stiffened. He raised he head out of his hands, shooting Dudley daggers enough to turn him to stone.

Dudley scoffed, leaning up against the swings. "Bet it's that boyfriend of yours. What's the bloke's name you always cry out? Cedric?"

"Shut up!"

Dudley rolled his eyes. "Oh, don't get your knickers all in a twist, I hear you moaning his name nearly every night."

Harry clenched his jaw, turning his head to ignore his cousin. "What are you doing out here? Thought your mummy would be beside herself to show off her precious little Dudleycuns."

"She was," Dudley scowled, kicking the dirt. "I just don't want to work in a bloody drill bit factory. So I left."

"Didn't think you were capable of independent thought."

"Didn't think you were capable of growin' past a meter n' a half."

Harry settled for another glare before giving up. Dudley leaned further into the pole. They were both tired. It was too hot out for this.

"Where's your posse of brickheads at?" Harry muttered half heartedly.

"Home. Too hot out."

"And here you are."

"Rather fry than hear one more thing 'bout stocks."

Harry squinted at the sun. Blistering, even as it hung low in the sky, dipping just below the trees. It was getting late.

"When're they supposed to be gone?"

"Reckon they ought've left by now."

Harry stood, cracking his joints. "I'm going back to the house." He took out his remaining bottle of water, drinking deeply.

Dudley straightened. "You better bloody well not drink all of that."

"Piss off." Harry turned and started home. Dudley trailed behind.

"I mean it. Gimme that."

"I'd rather dump it on the ground that give you any."

"You gimme the rest and I'll let you alone the rest of the night."

"Fine." Harry huffed. He tossed Dudley what was left of the water, only about two or three mouthfuls. The larger boy gulped it down in an instant.

Dudley tossed aside the empty bottle. He wiped his face in his shirt. "Hot as balls out."

Harry rolled his eyes and trudged onward back to Privet Drive. Between the heat and bickering with his cousin, he was exhausted. He was so tired, and with so little sleep the past month he was all but stumbling on the way back. Dudley didn't fare much better, the heat proved too exerting on his larger form.

They walked in silence. The ground seemed hazy despite the darkening sky. Harry was sweaty and covered in dust, and he wanted nothing more than a shower as he passed through the start of the tunnel that lead back onto their block.

It was then that he first noticed something was wrong.

The air was...cooler.

No, not just cooler. Cold.

Not the gentle cool of shade, but the bite of frost. The air was freezing. Dread filled Harry even as Dudley spoke.

"The hell is this? It's bloody freez—"

"Shh!"

Harry anxiously twirled his wand in his pocket. His eyes darted between the ends of the tunnel. His breaths came out in white puffs.

Something was wrong.

Dudley noticed his unease. He glanced back toward the way they came.

"What?" He hissed, nervously wetting his lips. "This better not be one of your freaky tricks!"

Harry didn't answer right away. His heart was beating too fast, his instincts telling him to run. They were too far into the tunnel. They only had two exits.

"Something's wrong."

They were trapped.

Silently, a rotting, black figure drifted around the corner, blocking their path. Black rags stretched over an emaciated form. It's face was hidden beneath its moldy hood, but Harry could still feel it's sightless eyes on him, it's mouth stretched agape, its insatiable hunger. The air froze in his lungs as he realized what he was seeing—a dementor.

Harry turned to flee, only to find that another blocked his retreat. They were trapped.

"Harry this isn't BLOODY FUNNY!" Dudley whimpered. Harry could see his irises blown wide in terror.

Harry whipped out his wand. Dementors. Why were they here? Dementors were supposed to be under control of the Ministry, guarding Azkaban! Were they now free to roam the countryside? Harry backed against the wall, his wand level in front of him, switching between pointing at the one in front and the one behind them. How did they get here? This was a muggle town! The nearest Wizarding society was over an hour away, how did they get here?

He found no more time to think as they drifted closer to him. Fear clenched him. He couldn't use magic, not around his muggle cousin. He couldn't escape.

Numbing hands wrapped around his throat. He heard Dudley shouting, but he seemed...distant. Foggy. Cold. All he could hear was a woman pleading, begging to save her son. Every joyful memory was forgotten, replaced by black despair. Tears sprung to his eyes, only Harry was too tired to cry. Everything was pointless. His friends were dead. Voldemort had won. Why bother? He was tired, just so tired, and all he wanted to do was close his eyes...

"HARRY!"

Dudley's scream jolted Harry awake. A rotting, putrid face clutched his throat, sucking the life from him.

He'd have to use magic, consequences be damned. This was life or death. Shutting his eyes to the black mouth before him, he thought back, back to the first time he had found out he was a wizard. He was a wizard, he had magic, and he was free from that cupboard under the stairs. Yanking on that elation, he channeled the pure emotion up through his arm and out from his wand.

"_EXPECTO PATRONUM!"_

A brilliant white stag shot forth from his wand, hitting the dementor strangling him directly in its chest. With an ear splitting shriek, the dementor released Harry and launched out of the tunnel into the night air. The stag circled back, rearing its head before charging at the second dementor.

Dudley lay slumped against the tunnel wall, whimpering and staring up in horror at the black figure above him. The dementor twisted, suddenly taking notice of Harry's Patronus. It screeched as it took the full force of the stag's charge, antlers piercing its rotting form. With a shockwave of light, it fled in a cloud of black mist.

As his stag dispersed, so did Harry's strength. Why did he even bother? Everything always ended up the same: too pathetic to save anyone. Shivering violently, he collapsed onto the ground, his wand rolling away. It was so cold. With his cheek pressed against the concrete, his eyelids drooped. He was too weak to keep them open.

Vaguely, he saw Dudley crawl to his knees, retching.

_'So...cold,'_ his last thought before darkness overtook him and he knew no more.


	2. Chapter 2: A Page from a Different Book

I feel like my chapters are a little short, but I felt bad that I haven't posted in so long. I've been working full time between two jobs and I'm just now learning how to work and maintain my life and still have time for hobbies. :( Anyway, not a lot happens, but the next chapter will be out quick. I split them up just to get something out. Pls tell me how I'm doing, this is my first fanfic and I appreciate feedback. Are my chapters too short? Also—the chapter deviates slightly from cannon. I didn't feel like sifting through the books for tiny details. Sorry ;(

* * *

"Harry, wake up."

He felt a hand shake his shoulder.

"Harry, you need to get up."

Who was speaking? He felt awful. Cold, clammy. The hand, two of them now, shook him harder. He groaned and cracked open an eye.

An elderly woman wearing a grey, patterned shawl knelt over him. "There we go, that's it." She tutted happily. "Let's see if we can get some chocolate in you, hmm?" She had a stern face, filled with frown lines and worry creases, but it grew less harsh when she realized he was awake. "Honestly, dementors? On Privet Drive? Absolutely ridiculous! This is something that would only happen to you, Potter!"

Harry blinked groggily. Dementors? Wait...dementors!

"Where — dementors? Sill here? Where—?" He croaked, scrambling to get up.

"Easy now, Harry!" The old woman said, resting a wrinkled hand on his shoulder. "They're gone — you right chased them off not ten minutes ago."

Harry stopped struggling. Ten minutes ago? He had been out for ten minutes? He turned to the woman, studying her. She had her greying hair pulled into a bun and her steel colored-eyes pierced him with concern. She struck him as familiar, only he couldn't quite place where he'd seen her…

"Mrs. Figgs?" He asked, bewildered.

Amusement briefly flickered across her face. "Yes, yes dear, that's me," Her eyes darkened. "But we need to get you inside. I don't know if those hellish creatures are coming back, but I am not going to wait around and find out."

Harry sputtered. "But—but I thought—aren't you a muggle? You would babysit me when I was little! You had all those cats!"

Mrs. Figgs stood up, leaning slightly on her cane to boost her. "I'm a squib, Harry. And you have one of those cats to thank for me finding you out here!" She swatted her cane against his calf. "Get up! For the last time, we need to get back inside! You look pale as death out here!"

He rolled onto his side and slowly got up. His head was still spinning with the revelation that Mrs. Figgs wasn't a muggle. A squib? After all this time? He had to put a hand on his knee to leverage himself, and he teetered slightly before regaining his balance. He really felt horrible. He shivered, not even feeling the muggy night air in the slightest. Mrs. Figgs was a squib. She had been horrible to him as a child. She forced him to clean her house, top to bottom, anytime he was over. Everything was covered in cat hair and the yellowed carpets always smelled of cat pee. He hated her cats. He pushed the complaints from his mind. Now wasn't the time. He needed his wand first. Harry took a few small steps to right himself, then quickly looked for his wand. It had rolled a few feet away from him, and as he bent to pick it up, his eyes fell over the tunnel wall.

His heart leapt into his throat.

"Where's Dudley!" He frantically asked, his voice cracking slightly at the end. "Where is he!"

Mrs. Figgs turned and shifted impatiently. "You've got nothing to worry about. I saw the boy stumbling toward home on my way over to you. No doubt Petunia's already fussing over him." She narrowed her eyes in thought, glancing away. "I should suggest some hot chocolate, though, it's likely she's already showering him with sweets…"

Harry let out air he didn't know he had been holding in. Dudley...was going to be ok. He wasn't really sure why he had reacted that strongly, the boy had been a source of torment for years. It certainly wasn't as if he liked him. He hated Dudley. It was a bit silly, but he had still grown up with him—however unpleasant it had been. He couldn't just abandon him. Perhaps...it was knowing that someone defenseless was counting on Harry to save them. That if Harry couldn't save them, no one would.

Like Cedric.

He flinched.

He was overthinking this; the simple thing was he wouldn't wish a dementor on anybody. Not even a troll like Dudley.

With his wand clenched in his right hand, he quietly followed Mrs. Figgs. If she saw tears in his eyes, she didn't say anything.

XXXXXXX

He sat in Mrs. Figgs' faded living room with a crocheted blanket draped around his shoulders and a mug of steaming hot chocolate gripped in his shivering hands. He took another gulp, not bothering to blow on it to cool it down. Harry relished the way it scalded his tongue and burned down his throat before warming him from inside. The drink was doing him wonders, both helping him regain feeling in his extremities and helping him forget the ordeal.

Harry breathed deeply. He had no idea what was happening, but he wouldn't go about this his usual way, with Gryffindor brashness. No, that's what gets people killed. What got Cedric killed. He wouldn't—couldn't—let that happen again. He couldn't handle this with boar-headed bravery; he'd have to take a page out of the Slytherin handbook and think.

A lot had happened tonight. Dementors had attacked him on Privet Drive, a muggle town. Dementors were supposedly under Ministry control, guarding Azkaban. So, that meant one of three things: Voldemort had taken over the Ministry in the few weeks he had been back and sent dementors to kill him; Voldemort had gained the allegiance of the dementors without taking over the Ministry and sent them to kill him; someone from the Ministry wanted him dead and sent them to kill him.

Admittedly, the first choice is what his worse-case scenario brain went to first. However, it just didn't hold up; if Voldemort had somehow managed to take over the entirety of the Ministry after only a few weeks of regaining a body after a decade of being a parasitic wraith, then he could have just brought his entire army of death eaters and killed him on his front porch without having to resort to indirectly assassinating him with two dementors. There were much easier ways to dispose of one boy with the might of the Ministry at his back. No, Voldemort had not taken over the Ministry. It was too far-fetched, even for him.

The second choice was a more likely possibility. The dementors were supporters of Voldemort in the last war, so it wouldn't come as a surprise if they allied once more. It was also much more feasible. Voldemort had regained his body, but he was still not at full power yet. He needed to amass his followers once more, regain his political foothold in Great Britain. It would make sense that he was currently contacting his old allies again.

Although...not all the pieces fit. If Voldemort had control over all the dementors, why did he send only two? Did he really think so little of him that he thought two dementors would be enough to take him out? Or, did he send low numbers to try and keep it a secret that they were his allies again? Harry didn't know how close the Ministry kept tabs on its prison guards, but he figured it couldn't have been that strict. In his third year, they had sent the dementors to roam the British countryside in search of the escaped Sirius Black and the horrid creatures had almost kissed him, on several occurrences. No, the Ministry wouldn't notice if a dozen or so of its guards took a little summer vacation to an out-of-the-way muggle town. Voldemort hadn't renewed alliances with the dementors, or at least he hadn't sent them to kill Harry. Also, another important point—Voldemort was far too eager to kill Harry himself. He remembered the feverish look in the crazed wizard's eyes; the way he fanatically described wanting to see the light leave his vibrant green eyes as his soul left him. He would never relinquish that right to some dark creature—creatures he thought were beneath him.

This also influenced the third and final option. It was possible that Voldemort had connections inside the Ministry who would be capable of sending the creatures after him, but again—he didn't believe Voldemort would do that. He wanted to kill Harry himself. But why would a Ministry worker be out for his head?

Perhaps this was a complex ploy to see him expelled from Hogwarts, his one safe place for ten months out of the year. It would see him vulnerable and leave him defenseless—his wand would be snapped and he'd be kicked out of the strongest and oldest wards in Great Britain. This was his second magical infraction. The first technically hadn't been his fault; a well-meaning house elf had been trying to protect him from the fiasco in second year…by expelling him. Harry had already seen the newest letter sent by the Ministry. Mrs. Figgs had tried her hardest not to show it, but she was distraught at the notice. Aurors would be here to collect him in the morning, his trial would be the next day. Harry worried his lip. He couldn't be kicked out of Hogwarts, it wasn't his fault! He was defending himself! What was he supposed to do, roll over and let his soul be sucked out? He took a deep breath, getting his beating heart under control. Now wasn't the time for emotions. Emotions were messy and only got in the way.

It was very likely that someone was setting him up. Someone who knew that he already had one magical infraction against his record...someone in the Ministry. Maybe Voldemort DID have connections that deep in the government. Perhaps the Dark Lord really was the mastermind behind this whole thing. But, that took Harry back to his previous point; Voldemort was determined to duel with him to the death. He didn't want Harry without a wand. Did he? In the graveyard, they both saw that their twin wands couldn't overcome one another. Was the Dark Lord so determined to overcome that weakness that he would simply eliminate the opposing wand? He didn't think so. Harry was loathe to admit it, and it wasn't very long, but Voldemort did in fact have a sort of honor code. It was a twisted, warped thing, but it was there.

That meant that a Ministry employee was working on their own. Someone who had a grudge against him, and wanted him out of the picture. Lucius? No, he would never dare go against his Lord. The plot was certainly Slytherin enough for the Head of the Malfoys, but Harry didn't doubt for a moment Lucius would dare step out of line with his Lord newly resurrected and breathing down his neck. It was someone else then.

Harry racked his brain. He thought hard for several minutes, taking gulps of hot chocolate every now and then, but he came up with nothing. He mulled over every option, every interaction he ever had with a Ministry employee, but he had no idea.

They were a snake, hidden in the shadows. Their original plot had failed—him being kissed—but their second was only just starting to play out. It was quite clever, really. If Harry didn't end up a soulless husk, then he'd get his wand snapped. Now, Harry would have to fight a different fight. One he couldn't blast his way out with his usual Gryffindor courage. This fight was one of veiled words with hidden meanings and courtroom proceedings. He had no doubt that his mastermind would reveal themselves to see it through.

He would just have to wait until they showed their face.

He would have to be ready.

With that issue sorted out as much as he could, Harry turned his focus on a different issue; Mrs. Figgs. After stumbling into her home an hour before, he had finally registered what she had told him. She was a squib. She knew about magic, and she knew about him.

She knew. She had been around all his life, for as long as he could remember. She saw the way the other kids treated him, the way they would never let him play with them. The way Dudley and his gang picked on him. Harry Hunting had been a popular sport at his elementary school before he had gotten fast enough to where they gave up chasing him.

She knew about the Dursleys. The way they treated him. The way they used him like a servant to do all their chores. The way they starved him whenever Dudley had to go on one of his diets. The way they had locked him in a cupboard for eleven years of his life.

Harry's white knuckles were clenched around his mug so hard it threatened to break. Outwardly, he gave no sign of emotion, but inwardly he was seething. She knew. She had to have known.

If she had figured out that he had been attacked by dementors in some back tunnel within minutes of it occurring, she KNEW about the abuse at the Dursleys. She knew. But she did nothing.

If anything, Mrs. Figgs made it worse! She tormented him whenever she babysat him! She forced him to clean every inch of her home, snapping at him if he missed even a single speck of dirt anywhere. And it still smelled like cat piss!

Mrs. Figgs was a squib. She should have been a safe haven for him. A place where he wasn't a freak. Harry shut his eyes. He was overwhelmed by the remembered heartache of when he was younger. Didn't she understand that? Everyone called him a freak. When everyone you know calls you a freak, treats you as a freak, every day of your life...you start to believe it. What he wouldn't have given for someone—anyone—to tell him that he was normal. That there were other people like him. That he wasn't alone. Anything. But instead...he had been abandoned. Locked up, like a freakish secret no one wanted to admit existed.

Harry swallowed the remainder of his drink. By now, it had gone cold.

...

Was it his fault?

His fingers curled inward.

Was he a freak even among freaks?

He supposed he was. He survived the Killing Curse, something that should have been impossible. But here he was, and the scar on his forehead never let anyone forget it, not for a moment.

Harry absentmindedly brushed his fingers over his skin. He traced out the jagged scar that had ruined his life. A tiny, thin bit of off-colored skin branded him as a freak. Harry clenched his eyes shut, a rock stuck in his throat. It was his fault. He was so weak, he couldn't even protect himself. He was living at the mercy of a muggle family that hated him and made sure he knew it. How was he supposed to save other people if he couldn't save himself? It was pathetic. He deserved it—everything. He didn't deserve anything, not love, not acceptance, nothing.

He should have never left that cupboard under the stairs.

Harry didn't remember falling asleep, only that he awoke sprawled out on a crouch covered in cat hair and smelling of cat pee to the pounding of Aurors at the door.


	3. Chapter 3: Never Again

Hello, I'm back with a longer chapter as promised. PSA; I paraphrased some dialogue from OoTP movie. I really didn't want to write the trial scene, but I also didn't want to skip it.

Sometimes I think my writing is bad. But then I remember that I read shitty stories all the time. I thoroughly enjoy them even though I think they're bad. So on that note, here's my story. Maybe it's bad, maybe it's not, but I hope you enjoy it anyway.

* * *

Harry Potter sneezed violently as he brushed yet another cobweb from his path. The thick webs clung to his hands as he swatted haphazardly in front of him. Ron would have a fit if he ever had to set foot in the decrepit building; the sheer volume of spiders and their delightful webs was atrocious. He shivered slightly. He could never seem to get warm, lately. Supposedly, there was a house elf living here. Unfortunately, it seemed the only thing that creature was keen on cleaning was his deceased Mistress' portrait. He stayed far away from Walburga Black; her shrieking was loud enough to raise the dead, and certainly loud enough to give him a splitting headache.

Harry had enough of his own headache to deal with. The Ministry trial had ended a little over a week ago and he was still furious in the wake of it. The nerve of them! Accusing his act of self-defense as that of a teenager desperate for attention! He wanted anything but attention! Harry took his anger out on a particularly fat spider, relishing the smack of it against his hand as he swatted it across the hallway.

He had been set up and they were barely being subtle about it.

_The Aurors brought him before Wizengamot. He sat in a chair in the center of a large horseshoe shaped room, the members high above him. Half of the room wore plum colored robes, the other a deep navy. All were silent as Minister Fudge sounded his gavel and started the trial._

_The Minister unfolded a pair of thin reading glasses, putting them on. Looking down his nose at a piece of parchment, he began to read in the smooth monotone of someone who has read the same text hundreds of times. "Criminal hearing on the 12th of August concerning the offences of Harry James Potter. Serving judge: Cornelius Oswald Fudge Minister—"_

"_Witness for the defense!" A strong voice cried out. _

_Heads swiveled to see who had interrupted the Minister. Albus Dumberdore, wearing a peculiar shade of periwinkle robes, strode into the courtroom. "Witness for the defense: Albus Perceval Wulfric Brain Dumbledore." _

_Harry's face split into a grin. He honestly hadn't been expecting the wizard, but he'd never been so happy so see the Headmaster in his life._

_Minister Fudge swallowed, looking pale. "You—you got our message that the time and place of the hearing had been changed?"_

_Dumbledore smiled thinly. "No, I'm afraid I must have missed it. I turned back the time on my watch and I just happened to be at the Ministry three hours early."_

_Whispering broke out amongst the members of the hearing. Harry realized the man must have used a time turner in order to arrive on time. Whoever wanted Harry dead was trying their hardest to ensure that he at least didn't win the trial. _

_The old wizard raised his head. "The charges?" He addressed Fudge._

_Minister Fudge leveled a hard stare at Dumbledore. "The charges against the accused are as follows: that he, knowingly and in full awareness of the illegality of his actions, performed underaged magic outside of school and produced a Patronus charm while in the presence of a muggle." He adjusted his grip on the stack of papers, lowering them to look Harry in the eye. "Do you deny producing said Patronus?" He said smugly._

_Harry straightened in his chair. "No, b—"_

"_And were you aware that, as an underage student, you were forbidden to cast magic outside of school?" Minister Fudge quickly cut him off._

"_Yes, I was, but—"_

_Fudge smirked before addressing the hearing. He clearly thought the trial was over. "Witches and wizards of the Wizengamot—"_

_Harry grew frustrated. "I only cast because of the dementors!"_

_The room erupted into hushed whispering. Dementors? In a muggle town?_

_Fudge paused before sneering again. "Yes, dementors, how clever of you. Muggles cannot see dementors, so there is no way of proving or disproving your defense." He took off his glasses, holding them in his hands. "How convenient that dementors just happened to be wandering around a muggle town when you performed illegal magic." _

_Harry felt his temper spike. "I'm not lying! We were trapped by two dementors and if I hadn't—"_

_Minister Fudge cut him off again, waving the tiny reading glasses in the air. "I'm sure you have a well-rehearsed story, but since you are not able to produce a witness—"_

_This time it was Dumbledore that interrupted. "Pardon me, Minister, but we do have a witness." He motioned his had toward a figure sitting in the back of the courtroom near the door. It was an old woman with grey hair, a shawl, and a long, yellow skirt: Mrs. Figgs._

_Harry's eyes widened. Mrs. Figgs was a squib, so she would have been able to see the dementors. Therefore, she would be able to testify in his defense. He had no idea how Dumbledore knew about her but he wasn't going to question it now. Dumbledore motioned for him to stand up and he quickly jumped up to let her take his place in the center of the room. He was more than happy to be relieved from the center of attention. He made his way to the side of the courtroom and sat down._

_Dumbledore began to pace in the front of the room. "Arabella Doreen Figgs, resident of Wisteria Walk. Please describe the attack." Dumbledore asked, coming to a stop across from her._

_Mrs. Figgs made her way to the chair and sat down, smoothing her floor length skirt. She propped her cane against the armrest. She looked up at the session, unsure of where to begin. "Well, I was up late, drinking tea and looking over this lovely new crochet pattern I found at the library. Anyway, I own several cats—"_

_Harry snorted to himself. 'Several' was a bit of an understatement. _

"—_and well, I just ask them that whenever they go outside to keep an eye out for anything strange. Well, there I was, reading _Crochet Weekly _when Tabitha—one of my calico cats, just gorgeous—came running in, meowing and just throwing a right fit. I hurried out, following her, and she led me to the tunnel going under the train tracks. There I saw them, Harry and a muggle boy, Dudley." She stopped, her eyes looking far away._

_She began again, quieter. "There were two other figures. Black. Tall. Looking at them seemed so grey. Like all the happiness had gone from the world. I don't remember much—just it was so cold, so very cold—but there was a bright light and they were gone."_

_The audience was silent. The description was unmistakable. There was no denying it now; there had been dementors on Privet Drive that night._

_Fudge chuckled nervously. "Now, that's preposterous. Dementors don't just wander into a muggle town and happen across the Boy-Who-Lived! The changes of that are astronomical!" He straightened in his seat at the podium. _

_Dumbledore stepped forward. "That is correct, Minister. The chances _are _astronomical." He then raised his head and addressed the audience. "It wasn't mere coincidence that dementors were on Privet Drive. They were after Harry Potter."_

"_Hem hem."_

_Harry turned to look at who spoke. A woman wearing sickly sweet pick lipstick, looking more part toad than witch. She smiled sweetly, as if trying to explain something to a child who didn't know better. "I'm sure I must have misunderstood you, Professor, but...dementors are under the control of the Ministry of Magic. It's so silly of me, but I couldn't help but get the impression that you are implying that the Ministry had ordered the attack on the boy."_

_Dumbledore wasn't fazed in the slightest at her twisting of words. "Yes, that would be a disturbing accusation, Madam Undersecretary, which is why I'm sure the Ministry will be doing a full investigation as to why two dementors were so far from Azkaban and as to why they attacked without authorization." _

_There. Harry knew right then that she was the one who had called the hit on him. He didn't know why—he had never seen the witch in his life—but he knew it had been her. As Undersecretary to the Minister, it was fully within her power to order such an attack. Harry stared at her. Was she with Voldemort, he wondered, or was she acting alone? _

_Dumbledore turned to look at Fudge. "Although, there _is _someone who would order such a thing." He took a few steps toward him before looking at him pleadingly. "The evidence is insurmountable, Cornelius, the Dark Lord is back. You must take action!"_

_Fudge paled dramatically. "I must do nothing! The Dark Lord is NOT back!" He leaned forward and loudly stated, shaking slightly._

_A disgustingly sweet voice piped up. "The Dark Lord has not been seen in well over a decade. To come up with such wild stories about resurrection is, quite frankly, the work of an overactive imagination," Umbridge looked at Harry like he was a toddler throwing a fit, "and a childish need for attention." She finished sweetly._

_Harry saw red. He immediately shot to his feet. "VOLDEMORT IS BACK! I saw him with my own eyes! He's back and he killed Cedric Diggory!" How dare she? She knew nothing yet HE was the ignorant one?_

_That, as Dudley would put it, was when shite hit the fan._

_Immediately, the session exploded. Wizards and witches were yelling over one another, furiously arguing. Members stood up and were shouting across aisles. Fingers were being pointed—mostly at him—and he even saw a few hats being thrown. Minister Fudge's face had taken on an interesting shade of purple and Umbridge looked like she had just stepped in a puddle of flobberworm pus. With a single name, Harry had created pandemonium._

_Harry seethed but paid specific attention to Umbridge's reaction. He watched her, carefully. She seemed...angry. Like she didn't want anyone to...ah. Was that it? She didn't want people knowing Voldemort was back, so she tried to shut him up. He was a loose end that needed tying up. Well, that didn't work out for her, now, did it? Unfortunately for her, she had underestimated him. He wasn't going to roll over and drop dead. No, he wouldn't let this stop him._

"_ORDER! Order!" Minister Fudge pounded his gavel and looked furious, but Harry could see the fear behind his eyes. He turned and jabbed a finger at him, spitting, "You! Boy! The Dark Lord IS NOT BACK and I will NOT hear another word about him!" His voice wavered at the end._

_Harry clenched his jaw, but said nothing. He sat back down._

_Dumbledore raised his voice. "In the matter of Harry Potter," the room quieted. Members collected themselves and took their seats. "The law clearly states that exceptions to the Statue of Secrecy can be made if one's life is in danger. Are you suggesting, Minister Fudge, that Harry should have done nothing than to save his own life?"_

_Fudge flared his nostrils and did not respond._

_Dumbledore raised his head in acknowledgment at Fudge. He paced a few steps, pausing, before he motioned for the vote to be held._

_A woman announced, "Those in favor of conviction?" _

_Several hands were raised. Fudge raised his reading glasses while he looked over his shoulder at the audience. Umbridge was another, looking not pleased to see that she was in the minority._

"_Those in favor of clearing the accused of all charges?"_

_The overwhelming majority raised their hands. Harry let out a shaky breath he didn't know he had been holding. He had won. It had been a close call. He had almost been expelled and his wand snapped. _

_Minister Fudge gave an exasperated shake of his head. "Cleared of all charges." He sounded his gavel and the trial was ended._

_Members stood up and made their way out of the room. Dumbledore followed suit. As he passed, Harry called out to him._

"_Professor Dumbledore!"_

_He ignored him and quickly exited the room. Harry felt the smile drop from his face. ...What? _

Harry scowled. What the hell had that been about? Why did Dumbledore just leave like that, without saying a word? Was he...not worth his time?

Dumbledore knew about Mrs. Figgs. He knew she was a squib and lived in the same neighborhood as him. They seemed to have been at least a little familiar with one another. Were they friends? How close were they? She must have been familiar to him for Dumbledore to call upon her as a witness. Right?

Harry stopped, leaning his hand against the dark and peeling hallway wallpaper. He rubbed his hands down his arms, trying to warm them.

...Did she tell him? About the Dursleys?

His blood ran cold.

Did Dumbledore know and do nothing?

No.

Harry refused to even consider it. Harry pushed off the wall and continued down the hall. Dumbledore would never do that to him. The man was practically his grandfather. He was always looking out for Harry, always doing what was best for him. Sure, he knew that Harry despised his relatives but...did he know why? Harry never told him. He never told anyone. But he was the greatest wizard of their time, wouldn't he still...know?

Harry slammed the brakes on that train of thought. No. He wouldn't consider it a minute longer. It was ridiculous; he was being ridiculous. He pushed those thoughts down, far away, and locked them shut. If there was a niggling at the back of his mind, Harry absolutely did not pay attention to it.

He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. He was currently exploring the many filthy rooms of Number 12 Grimmauld Place. It had been chosen as the next best place for Harry to stay the rest of summer. He had wanted to stay with the Weasleys, but the Blacks' home and its Fidelius Charm was deemed the best replacement for the blood wards surrounding Privet Drive. Aunt Petunia had refused to let her freakish nephew back into her home for the remainder of summer due to Dudley's exposure to the dementor attack. Of course, Harry had been blamed entirely for the event (although, to some extent, it had been his fault). He had been kicked out, and so, they put him here.

Normally, Harry would've been ecstatic at living with Sirius, except…he wasn't actually living with the man. Sirius wasn't here. He was gone. Doing "work", whatever that meant. Harry had a feeling Dumbledore was using him to run errands, to keep an eye on Voldemort's movements. That irked him. Why couldn't he know what his godfather was up to? If anyone had a right to know what Voldemort was up to, it was him! He needed to know if he was being targeted again! He needed to know...if anyone else was going to end up in the crossfire.

Cedric.

Harry shut his eyes, feeling them burn. He couldn't cry. Crying wouldn't bring him back. It was emotions like this that had gotten him killed. He almost botched the trial because he couldn't control his temper. What would he have done if his wand had been snapped? How was he supposed to save people if he didn't even have magic?

No. This stopped now. For Cedric.

Harry had always looked up to him. Cedric had never cared that he was the Boy-Who-Lived, he was always just Harry. Even when all of Hogwarts hated Harry, Cedric hadn't let that affect his treatment of him. He was honorable and loyal and _so very brave_. He died a wizard's death, facing down Voldemort with his wand drawn and fire in his eyes.

His relationship had been complicated with the older boy. On one hand, he was his rival. They were in different houses and were competitors in the Triwizard tournament. On the other…he loved him. Cedric was perfect. He was tall, handsome, intelligent, and caring. Harry would never forget the way his smile lit up a room, or the way his laughter was so infectious. It was always so _genuine. _So full of life and joy.

The only hiccup was that he'd fancied girls. Harry had thought he'd fancied girls too, but he had grown to realize that he only liked Cho Chang because Cedric liked her. In some weird, convoluted way, Harry had thought that if he dated Cho it would be like dating Cedric. But it wouldn't have. He had loved Cedric. And he had died because of him. Harry breathed deeply, shivering.

Harry reached the end of the hallway. A door stood in front of him, one he hadn't opened yet. He had taken to exploring the house in the last week for lack of anything better to do. Harry reached and opened the door.

It creaked open and Harry was mildly surprised at how clean it was. It seemed that Kreacher had selected this room as one of the few things he cleaned. He stepped into the room, noticing the distinct Slytherin colors. The bedding was a dark green with silver trim and tiny snakes adorning the posts. The walls were a deep forest green crisscrossed with a darker shade that was twisted into intricate designs. Everything was dark and sophisticated. This must have belonged to Sirius' younger brother, Regulus Black.

It was certainly a contrast to Sirius' room. He had found it earlier in the day. Harry had been quite amused at the overabundance of muggle posters featuring scantily clad women on motorcycles. Everything had been loud and rebellious; a true reflection of his godfather. Regulus, Harry could tell, was far more refined. The perfect Black heir, unlike his older brother. And, from what the newspaper clippings on the wall, an avid Voldemort supporter. Dozens of propaganda pieces dating back to the early 1970s covered the walls. They discussed key campaign points Voldemort used to recruit followers, such as pureblood supremacy, muggle segregation, and dark arts legalization.

Harry slowly strode further into the room. He eyed the bookshelf to his right; it featured some impressively dark titles, even more so than those of the Black family library. _A History of Blood Rituals, Egyptian Hieroglyphic Curses, Necromantic Theory. _Harry raised an eyebrow at the last one. Necromancy, the magic of raising the dead, was just a theory. No one in the history of magic had ever been able to raise the dead, yet it was still considered the darkest of all branches of magic. Even theorizing about Necromancy was enough to land a witch or wizard in Azkaban. The fact Regulus Black owned such a book spoke volumes toward the type of wizard he was; one entrenched in the dark arts and utterly loyal to Lord Voldemort.

Harry moved on. Next to the bookshelf was a large desk. He glanced at the papers laying on top, shuffling them around. More political pieces, this time about the downsides of magical inbreeding. He snorted at that. Sirius' and Regulus' parents had been second cousins, so it was quite ironic that Regulus was studying that particular topic. At least, if anything, he was self-aware.

Mildly curious, Harry poked around in the drawers. Quills, ink, parchment, a few knuts, and more newspaper articles. Nothing interesting. Harry opened the last drawer. A locket was the only thing sitting in it. The chain was black, the pendant a rich amber with a deep emerald 'S' embellished onto the front. Runes were carved onto the surface, curling around the border of the pendant. The craftsmanship was delicate and ancient, yet it was untarnished. It looked expensive enough that Lucius Malfoy would sell his firstborn child to own it-though, he'd probably sell Draco for a bag of every flavor beans just to be rid of him. Harry knew nothing about the locket, yet he knew it was a priceless family heirloom.

It seemed to _radiate _magic. It was so pure and powerful that Harry was overwhelmed with the urge to put it on. He slowly lifted it out of the drawer. Sirius wouldn't mind; hell, he doubted the man even knew it was here. Yes, he'd just wear it around the house. It was such a shame to keep a beautiful and priceless necklace stowed away. Such treasure was meant to be worn and cherished and shown off. Harry would just wear it, and when Sirius comes back, he'll ask him if he wants it back. In the meantime, Harry will just...keep it warm for him. He slid the chain over his head and grinned. It was really so beautiful. Too bad no one was around to see it.

_They don't want you around._

Harry cocked his head to the side. What? They didn't want him around? Of course they wanted him around, they were his friends! Sirius, Ron, the Weasleys, Dumbledore, everybody. He just had to stay here for the summer, is all. It wasn't as if he'd be stuck here forever. He'd see all his friends again in less than three weeks.

_Don't you see? You're locked away in a new cupboard. _

Harry paused. He...was locked away. Sure, it was in a much larger house, and with far fewer relatives, but he still wasn't allowed to leave. Sometimes Moody came by and checked up on him, but he didn't interact with anyone outside of that. He hadn't even seen Sirius yet. He was "busy". Busy with what? Too busy to visit his godson? Why was he stuck here alone?

_They could have put you with the Weasleys. They've done it before, haven't they? But they don't want you around. They don't need you._

That struck a chord. Was he really that unwanted? Was that the reason why he was at Grimmauld Place, alone? The only company he had was Kreacher, and all he did was moan about his poor, dead, Mistress. He didn't qualify as company. Was Harry no longer welcome at the Weasley's? He sometimes spent the Yule holiday with them, he honestly considered them family at this point. Molly had even knitted him a sweater. Every holiday the Weasleys sent him a gift. Not even the Dursleys sent him anything. To no longer be welcome there...it hurt to consider.

_The Weasleys don't want you around their children, their home. You're a target. What'll happen if the Dark Lord comes for you there? Their family will end up as collateral._

Harry felt ice in his veins. He couldn't let that happen, not again, not to someone he loved. What would he do if George, or Fred, or Ginny died because of him? Or, Merlin forbid, if Ron died? He would be inconsolable. Even if the Weasleys didn't think of him as family, as much as that hurt, he wouldn't let them suffer his burden. He swore he wouldn't let it happen again and he meant it. He would stay away, far away. They were better off without him. Harry breathed in deeply. They were better off without him.

Maybe that was the case with everyone. He was a ticking time bomb, counting down to the next time Voldemort tried to kill him. He was a danger to anyone he was around and he couldn't afford to forget that. No, if he stayed away, Voldemort wouldn't go after them. He was the one he wanted, no one else. He was the Boy-Who-Lived, no one else.

When Harry went to sleep that night, he dreamt of the graveyard. Only this time, instead of just Cedric, it was everyone: Sirius, Ron, Hermione, the Weasleys, Moody...everyone. They were lined up single file, and one by one, they were struck by vibrant green lightning. Cold laughter echoed around him and he felt like he would never feel warmth again. One by one, everyone he loved was killed and all Harry could do was scream.


End file.
